The Half-Eaten Apple
by IWantYouInMyLife
Summary: Natasha knew perfectly well what apples symbolized — it being bitten only told her what she already knew about herself; there were sin and temptation all around her, and Natasha had bitten, chewed and swallowed. She had been tested, and she failed. It was there to stay, Natasha had accepted that. Forever connecting her to Anthony Stark.
1. Who are you today?

**Author's Note: Okay, here it is. Another crazy project I promised myself wouldn't take priority in my life, and yet, somehow, very mysteriously, ended up becoming the story I would write for hours and hours whenever I possibly could.**

 **I would like to thank everyone from the AO3 writers' facebook group, who encouraged me to carry on with this project when I was feeling very lost. Without the support, perhaps this story wouldn't be here. Honestly, this group is fucking amazing.**

 **Writing fanfics has been such a crazy process of self-discovery for me. Getting inside Natasha's mind was another experience entirely. I'm so pumped to have written this, though, because I think it's amazing and worth every excruciating moment I spent editing this to death. So, without further ado, here it goes. I hope you enjoy this ride.**

 **Disclaimer: I'm not the owner of anything — just a really pathetic self-control.**

* * *

" _Y-yes_ , just like that, baby," the man underneath her moaned, eyes shut and back arching under her ministrations. For some reason — probably because he was currently buried to the hilt inside her — he thought it was acceptable to throw nicknames around. Baby was far from being the worst thing to cross his lips since the moment they had entered the motel room Natasha had rented for the night for that exact purpose — finding some stranger to drag along for a few hours.

Although, hours might have been a significant overestimate of David's competency on her part. Minutes seemed more likely.

Natasha carried on riding him — faster, harder. She wanted so badly to feel something other than disgust for both herself and the poor excuse of a man lying on that cheap bed. Sex was supposed to be easy, she knew. Instead of easy, though, the situation in which she had gotten herself was more of a hazard than anything else.

David grabbed her hips, opening his blue eyes to bestow her with a pitiful look she was sure he deluded himself into thinking was something approaching sensual. If it hadn't been so goddamn pathetic, it would've been funny. As it was, Natasha closed her eyes and tried to focus on the stimulus happening there. David had a dick — a perfectly operational dick, at that —, if she forgot everything else about him, maybe she could salvage her night.

With how unlucky she was, the second Natasha's eyes closed, the idiot raised his hands to fumble with her bra-clad breasts, squeezing more than caressing. It wasn't the borderline pain that bothered her — not even close —, it was the reminder that Natasha still had her bra on, that she had batted his hands away the two other times he had tried to remove it. Which, in turn, had absolutely nothing to do with self-consciousness and everything to do with the soulmark on her ribs — a soulmark that, at the moment, felt like a burn searing into her skin as she thought about her other half.

He would _never_ have settled for such a passive position. Tony would've never allowed her to hide behind clothing items. Tony would've- No, she would not do that to herself. She was there to forget, to escape.

Natasha faked a moan, throwing her head back. Fake it 'till you make it, that was her new motto. She would go through the motions until there was space in her head for anything other than him. She had to. Thankfully, her training helped in that instance.

The ability to compartmentalize was invaluable in her line of work, a skill she had learned by necessity, foremost. Equally as important, was the capacity to disassociate, another essential skill, and one which had saved her sanity more times than she cared to admit. However, if Natasha allowed herself to be perfectly honest in the private space of her own mind, in the middle of sex wasn't a time she would've thought to need either of those abilities.

The sad excuse of a man beneath her gasped, trying to get some leverage with the heels of his feet to thrust back, only to half-slip ridiculously. Natasha never even faltered in her moves, still riding him with an absent mind, trying to convince herself she felt something close to pleasure from it.

"Just like that," he groaned, breathy. "God-yes!"

Natasha considered saying something equally as ridiculous back, just to convince herself she could, but before she came up with an appropriate tone for the occasion, her phone ran on the bedside-table, Clint's number flashing on the screen. Saved by the ring.

Releasing a quiet relieved breath of air, she got up and accepted the call, ignoring the surprised flailings happening on the bed.

"Hit me," she said, hoping for a mission.

Clint was her favorite for a reason. "Ditch the douche-bag I can hear behind you, there's a mission. Kidnap. SHIELD's business. Meet me at the headquarter. Can you make it in thirty?"

Natasha glanced at David, who was sitting at the edge of the bed, a furious look on his sweat-dripping face. "Give me twenty," she said, before hanging up. As Clint had said it; it was time to lose the douche-bag.

* * *

Love was for children; Natasha learned that the hard way. In her line of work, trust was the thing that would get her killed, so, instead, she settled for acquaintances. Falling in love, getting married, having children, baking pies... the whole white-picket-fence life wasn't for her, had never been for her. She was Russian — the American dream was for fools.

And she had been following the plan for years and years before it all went terribly wrong. Her hard work went down the drain, and she knew exactly who to blame. Natasha carefully constructed persona cracked the moment she met Clint.

Clint was annoying. Horribly, overwhelmingly frustrating. Yet, somehow, he ended up sliding between the tiny cracks of the armor Natasha had never even known were there. He was brutal, vicious and ruthless when needed, and yet, at the same time, there was a softness to him, something about the way he joked and laughed at his own stupid witticism that pulled at just the right strings to make Natasha fold whenever he was concerned. That, or maybe his unwavering loyalty.

Clint saved her. She owned him a debt that could never truly be paid — not with money, not with favors, not with blood. So she stayed. Stayed in SHIELD even when shit hit the fan and Natasha wanted nothing more than to run and hide, the way she had been trained to do. She glued herself to his side and saved his life more times than she cared to count, trying to ignore the voice inside her head that whispered about how many times he had been the one to save her.

It was best if she pretended to stick around because he needed her to.

The Avengers, however, turned out to be so much more than what she had signed for. When Fury asked her to monitor Tony, she considered, if only for a brief second, telling him the truth and bailing. She could've dealt with Bruce Banner, with Steve Rogers, hell, Natasha could have dealt with the Norse god, but not Tony Stark. She avoided and carefully monitored anything pertaining that man with steadfast determination, and for Fury to destroy that with a few barked orders to infiltrate as the man's secretary… well, safe to say it took all of her will force to keep her thoughts to herself and accept the mission without another word.

So Natasha did what she did best — created a persona, with different tastes, mannerisms, and desires, and immersed herself in it, shielding her mind while focusing on the mission. Foremost, she was an agent. More than anything else, she did what she had to do to get shit done. It was almost never painless, and it always left a scar behind, but it was what she had been made and molded to do — what she did better than anybody else.

During those types of missions, Natasha avoided Clint like the plague. She vanished from his sights because it was simply too difficult to stay detached when he was around, constantly reminding her of herself. He understood. He understood much too well, which was why he often tracked her down whenever her mission dragged on for long and gave her a good shake.

He knew, though. Of course he fucking knew. Clint had seen her in every state of undress possible, had tended to ninety-percent of her injuries, so of course he knew that with Tony it would be different. No one got that close to their soulmates without consequences, and even Natasha hadn't been delusional enough to believe herself exempt from that when she accepted the mission.

And she had been right, she acknowledged as she looked at her reflection in the large mirror hanging from the wall — the wall from the Avengers Tower. From her room in the Avengers Tower, to be more precise. Somewhere along the way, Natasha allowed herself to be roped into this crazy initiative, which had transformed into a serious group of… what? Vigilantes? She wasn't even sure anymore of what they were.

A wrong turn of head led her eyes to land on her left side, on her ribs, more specifically, where her soulmark was branded into her skin. An apple. The perfect symbolism for knowledge, temptation, sin, the fall of man, death, wisdom, luxury, love, fertility, immortality. Hers was not just an apple, though. It was a half-eaten apple.

She hated it. Perhaps 'cause it hit too close to home for comfort. Natasha knew perfectly well what apples symbolized — it being bitten only told her what she already knew about herself; there were sin and temptation all around her, and Natasha had bitten, chewed and swallowed. She had been tested, and she failed. It was fitting, if not somewhat harsh to be branded that way, to be reminded every day of her choices.

She looked at her mark — it was still there. Like her, it had survived the Red Room. It surely hadn't been for lack of trying on their part. They tried — not only on her, but on all the girls — to remove the soulmarks. They couldn't. Nobody could. No matter what they did to the skin, it always grew back, untarnished.

It was there to stay, Natasha had accepted that. Forever connecting her to Anthony Stark.

Why couldn't it have been Clint?

* * *

Natasha gave herself a once over. Mechanically. Methodically. She knew what she had to do — had all the correct steps memorized for many years. She was an expert at the game and tonight she would play to win.

Deciding she was as ready as she would ever be, the assassin, who was playing the seductress for the night, turned and strode toward the elevator, pressing the button for the lab once she was inside it. She felt calm, focused. A mission was something she was familiar with, something she understood. There was only a goal and a strategy to get there — the rest was white noise.

When she reached the doors, it was immediately clear that Tony wasn't expecting company that night, because he was bent over the main table, working on a big metal piece, while some loud rock music drowned all other sounds in the room. Natasha didn't give that the chance to discourage her, though. Tony worked, it was his thing. Natasha worked out, and Tony created. That was just what they did in between missions to clear their head — she wouldn't have a better opportunity.

The second Natasha entered the room, JARVIS lowered the music to an acceptable volume, which prompted Tony to raise his head from the (motor?) in front of him and face her.

It was clear that her presence in his lab was shocking. For a minute he eyed her, before speaking. "Romanov," he greeted, no more warmly than he did any other stranger.

"Tony," Natasha said, a lot more pleasant. She was smiling, too. The woman she was tonight was someone who smiled easily. "I heard most people go out into the world on Saturday nights."

If anything, her words seemed to sour Tony's expression even further. He turned back to face his creation. "Well, I'm not most people, and I have to finish this. It's a new prototype."

She leaned over his counter — slightly, always slightly — before she responded, knowing her movements were bound to call his attention. "And how's that working out for you?" She asked, letting her tongue wrap around the words.

"It's not," Tony answered, eyes glued to the metal in front of him. His frustrated expression remained the exact same, no shift whatsoever. He didn't even glance up as Natasha rested her palms down and pushed her top half even closer to him than before.

She wouldn't allow it to disturb her confidence. More than anything else, she was a professional. Natasha had done ops where she had to win people over for months and months before they trusted her enough to do whatever it was she needed to get done — this was nothing more than a distraction. Tony was known for his obsession with his work, it would take more than some cleavage for him to stray his focus. She would simply do better. Failure was _not_ an option.

"Are you going out?" He asked, and it almost sounded like a dismissal.

"Yes," Natasha lied, knowing she would go no further than her downstairs bedroom after she left that lab. Or maybe Tony could- "To a club, actually. Wanna come along?"

Again, he barely seemed to register her question. She expected at least a subconscious response — a shiver, a surprised glance, a nervous gesture, anything. Yet, Tony Stark, king of all parties, couldn't give a fuck that Natasha had just asked him to join her. "Pass me that screwdriver," he requested instead, opening his hand without turning to look her way. When she placed it in his waiting hand, he added. "Oh, yeah, party. Not a good day for me. I gotta finish this — it's important."

He probably wasn't lying about it — whatever he was working on was most likely to be an important project, or he wouldn't have bothered. In fact, if she were to analyze the situation objectively, as well as put together the clues scattered at the models and projections covering the several screens around the table, then it would be clear that his uttermost focus was being given to an Avengers project. It failed to diminish the burn of the rejection, however.

"Are you sure you're not open to some convincing?" Natasha tried once more, in a sweet tone.

Tony was already elbow-deep into the project, grease covering his hands and shirt. "Yep," He confirmed, popping the 'p' sound. "Have fun."

Like a snap, her concentration failed, and Natasha felt like flinching from his casual tone. All the conviction she had previously been feeling evaporated just as quickly as they had come, leaving Natasha feeling rather foolish for being intruding on Tony's work just to play some stupid game. He wasn't interested.

Convincing herself that she was above such a thing as humiliating herself for any man — no matter who he was — Natasha figured she had done enough damage for one night, and, before she could come up with another ridiculous plan to engage the engineer, she said her goodbyes. It was quick, easy. He made no moves to prolongate the conversation or to prevent her from leaving — not that she had been expecting him to — so she just turned on her back and made her way to the elevator.

* * *

The problem with Clint was that he saw too much. He, more often than not, would stand in a corner, bypassing casual surveillance and watch people's interactions without pitching a word in, as though he honestly had no opinion about anything being discussed. But that wasn't the part Natasha objected to — she was a spy as well, being inconspicuous and blanked-faced was part of the job. The glaring difference between them, however, was that she studied people's behaviors and predicted what their decisions would be or what their motives were, based on years upon years of study and hands-on experience. Clint, on the other hand, empathized with others on a level that would forever remain a mystery to Natasha, no matter how many times she worked alongside him.

She was far too cynical to believe in mystical powers or gifts, yet she had no other way to describe the manner in which Clint would spend an hour observing a person or carrying a casual conversation with them, only to pick them apart later on and predict their future decisions down to the tiniest details. It never failed to amaze Natasha nor did she ever come close to replicating his methods. Clint simply had better eyes than she did.

Which was why, after being left puzzled by Tony's behavior once more, when all she wanted was a dangerously hot shower and a facemask, Natasha opened her bedroom door to the sight of her partner lying on her bed — looking content and carefree to boot — she barely managed to hold back a sign. She deserved her rest — she did.

"Please, don't look so pleased to see me," he said, rolling an arrow in his hands as he carried on sprawled on her clean bed-sheets in his dirty gym clothes.

Casual tone, relaxed posture, dirty clothes. It wasn't difficult to guess where he was going with that.

"You can't even see my expression without turning to face me, Clint," Natasha pointed out, closing the door behind her. By doing that, she was surrendering. For the time being, at least.

"Yes, I can," he rebutted. "Getting predictable there, Tasha."

"Don't call me that." It was a reflex. _Shit_. Not only did she argue against the shortening of her name in a way she hadn't done in years, but she also sounded so overly defensive about it. No way would Clint let that slip by.

"Would you prefer Natalia?" He wrapped his mouth around the name, Russian pronunciation and all.

"Fuck you." Another slip, another sign.

Clint dropped the arrow to one side of the bed, patting the other side invitingly without another word. He had his head turned to her now, giving Natasha that soft, understanding look she should be used to getting by then — but wasn't. He knew, she realized.

Natasha exhaled, stepping out of her heels and going straight for her bed, throwing her body next to Clint's. Close, far too close. With them, there was always an unspoken dance going on — one that they had never dared to write down the steps for but had somehow established itself between the two of them over the years. By then, most of the moves had already been danced and witnessed, in a way or another.

Not that one, though.

"Who are you today?" Clint asked, and his eyes burned as they held hers. He asked, even though the answer had to be clear by her clothes, her expression, her smell.

"Not Natasha," she confirmed. There was no use denying.

"You smell revolting," he pointed out, wrinkling his nose. "Sweet is not a good scent for you."

"Clint, you smell like a dirty gym," was her reasonable argument, even though they both knew the smell of sweat and dirty was far more appealing to her than any apple and cinnamon perfume sitting on her cupboards could ever hope to be.

"I was on the target practice. Where were you?"

"The lab." There was no need to say which one.

He raised both eyebrows. "Tony's?" he asked, probably just because he wanted to hear her confirm it.

And she did. She was so goddamn tired. "Yes. Tony's."

"Funny outfit to wear to Tony's greasy lab," Clint commented, his closest hand lifting from the bed to touch the hem of her dress, pinching the fabric between his fingers. "Silk, hun?"

Natasha felt her brows moving on their own volition as her expression went from blank to pained at Clint's casual question. "Silk," she confirmed, feeling pathetic as he released her dress and allowed his hand to rest on her thigh instead. "Fucking silk. Clint—"

"Are you upset because he doesn't show any interest for this charade or because you didn't have the guts to go up as Natasha?" Clint interrupted, suddenly ignoring their careful dance and going for the kill.

"I don't know," Natasha responded, and it was the truth. Everything about the situation was new and uncomfortable for her — what she was doing was both unprofessional and ridiculous, and Natasha knew better than to be either of those things.

Clint — saw-more-than-he-should Clint — squeezed her leg before saying, "You would hate him if he fell for your game. You know you would, Tasha. If he had shown even the slightest interest in you tonight, tomorrow you would be wearing this awful perfume again and buying padded bras by the dozens."

She would have done precisely that – it was easy to picture. "It would've been simpler if he had."

"Simpler? If you want simpler, go for the doorman from the first floor who always looks as though he is seconds away from a stroke whenever you enter the tower," he said, his voice soft. "Tony is… well, Tony is not simple, I'll tell you that."

"Tony is a man." It was a basic observation, but one that should've implied several other moves on his part.

"So am I," Clint stated, once again squeezing her thigh with his right hand before, in a flash, rolling over her body, covering her smaller frame with his. Natasha tensed as he hovered above her, his left elbow sustaining his weight as his other hand began to travel up her leg slowly.

Her body went still as she fought against different instincts howling inside her head. Clint's face was inches above her's, his breath hitting her skin each time he exhaled. Natasha forced herself to breathe with him, even as his hand went further up her thigh. The side of her that still behaved in the way she had been trained to wanted to head-butt him and shove him off her; the side that understood Clint better than anyone else kept her in check.

"Should I proposition you as well?" He whispered mockingly. "Tell you all the weird shit I want to do to you? Or maybe I should skip the boring talk and go straight for the good part — after all, why wait when you're clearly dressed to impress?"

She sagged under him.

Natasha went completely lax as Clint's hand finally stopped when he reached the place on her hip where her underwear should've been. His hip was pressed against her and yet he showed no signs that he was affected by the feel of her body. It was ridiculous. His eyes were studying her every move as the teasing finally reached her brain.

Natasha was behaving absurdly.

"There's nothing else but this," she finally admitted, whispering in the space separating them. "Clint, he ignored me. Nothing, not even a glance. How can he—"

And, as a curtain being lifted, Clint's disposition changed again, his mocking expression leaving his face as he removed his hand from her hip. Suddenly, as she laid there, confused and lost, his eyes went so soft. "Tasha. You gotta shed all these past skins you keep clinging to — it's way past due, I think. You invade his personal space — his lab — to watch him work on his unfinished projects while listening to his favorite playlist and expect him to welcome a stranger? This is our team; this is our home. No one is acting here."

She hadn't been acting before, too. She had been trying to settle into the role of being an Avenger, a superhero, a part of a team, a member of a family. But Tony…

"I can't," Natasha shook her head. "He's… Tony has had so many—How could I even—I mean, I just want to—Pepper is-"

"Gone. Pepper and Tony are no longer together for a reason, Nat. Come on, you know this. She couldn't live with his life as an Avenger. You are a goddamn member of this group."

"I know!" Natasha shouted. "So? What am I but the spy nobody trusts, and who cannot trust anybody in return? The only time Tony showed an ounce of interest for me was when I was fucking Natalie, the assistant."

"Tony's a playboy — his words," Clint reasoned from above her, refusing to scream back. His eyes were tracking her moves carefully, and he never moved an inch from his place hovering over her, almost protective now. "He flirted with a new assistant, so what? You wanna a first-hand sample of the whole 'quick fuck and goodbye card experience'?"

"If I get to leave this all behind afterward, yes!" Maybe she could cleanse herself of that sickness, which was spreading all through her body.

"Stop deflecting. You're Natasha Romanov, if you wanted a shag, we wouldn't be here. It's time you admit that you wanted him to say no to all this crap, and now that he's passed your shitty tests, you're scared because there's no place to go from here."

The problem with Clint was that he saw too much. He saw too much, and it threw her off when he turned and said something about herself that she hadn't been ready to admit even in the darkest corners of her mind, as if it was obvious. Simple. It was crazy, terrifying, bizarre.

Then, with a tiny smile hanging on his lips and a knowing look on his bloody eyes, he suggested, "Why don't you ditch the plastic apple pie spray and see if maybe he likes a little dirt and sweat?"

Natasha closed her eyes. Perhaps because the temptation to do just that was far too great.

* * *

 **AN2: I'll be back with the new chapter soon, alright? Don't forget to leave a review on your way out 3**


	2. Who am I today?

**Author's Note: Babes, I'm back. Welcome to the crazy mind of Natasha Romanov, part 2.**

* * *

Natasha thought of all the knowledge she had of Antony Stark. It wasn't difficult. Clint used to say she had obsessive tendencies to over analyze every person who worked with her — which was far from being an exaggeration. The Red Room had installed in her head that the only person she would ever be able to trust fully would be herself and that others would most likely be a liability rather than an asset on the field. More than any other lesson, that was the one she struggled the most to unlearn, SHIELD and Avengers business aside. She could work with others — could take on any assignment given to her — but trust, well, trust was something else entirely.

Trust, not unlike love, had always been a concept she understood semantically, but could hardly allow a space for in her life. A moment of hesitation, one bad decision, that was all it took for a person to go down, and Natasha refused to have such easily exploitable weaknesses. However, it wasn't as though she could choose to not have a soulmate — she was born with her mark and would die with it, there was little wiggle room in that front.

In a way, having Tony as a soulmate was both a blessing and a curse. On the one hand, he wasn't a civilian, he knew exactly what she did and just how gruesome it could get, he had some knowledge of her past before SHIELD, and he wasn't ignorant of her true personality. On the other hand, Tony was a public figure. One of the most public figures on the planet, which meant constant scrutiny from all sides and a big red target on his back. And although Natasha, too, had a target on her back at all times, it was her ability to remain a forgettable face in the crowd and knowing how to manipulate different situations that saved her life time and time again.

It wouldn't do to be naive. Tony had never hidden his mark from the world — hadn't been able to do so with how often he had ended up shirtless on camera. He wasn't ashamed of it, wasn't afraid of having a brand marking his body. If she revealed her matching mark, the chances of them having any type of relationship under covers were slim to none. Which was one of the biggest reason she had yet to make any moves.

Shit.

She wasn't Pepper. She couldn't be the face of Stark Industries.

Natasha released a deep breath, rubbing her face in frustration. It was ridiculous how wound up she was when she had yet to even tell Tony anything. Weren't the myths of soulmates that they were supposed to be perfect for each other? A best friend, a confidant, a shoulder to cry on, a lover, a romantic partner… Soulmates could be whatever they needed to be. However, thus far, Natasha felt unprepared to be anything Tony could possibly need.

The alarm on her phone rang, pulling her from her thoughts and informing that it was time to meet the others in the kitchen. Somehow, even the promise of food wasn't enough to make the process of getting up and facing the music any easier.

* * *

Family meals were not something Natasha considered to be inside her comfort zone. On the contrary, it was very much outside her, arguably, bigger-than-most comfort zone. It was simply far too strange to be enjoyable. The others, in various levels — she could admit — had all participated in family meals during their childhoods — learning the script and forming fond enough memories to feel nostalgic as they sat around the kitchen table. She, on the other hand, could hardly say the same.

So, as everyone moved around, seeming to know which role they needed to play without any clue from the others, Natasha sat on a chair, holding a bottle of beer that didn't even come close to having enough alcohol to soothe her concerns. It was almost easy to fall back into a role, to allow her training to mask her emotions and pretend to be comfortable with the others. Clint was far too busy chopping up some herb to notice, so she should be inconspicuous enough.

Natasha's eyes slid to the visible exits of the room, instinctively needing to know where she would need to run in case of an emergency, even though she had already memorized the entire layout of the tower. It was more of a habit than an actual necessity at that point, but it was a calming motion, and Natasha was trying to settle down enough to enjoy the presence of her team members.

Which, of course, was the moment Tony entered the room, spinning around and removing his sunglasses. "I've arrived, kids. And I come bearing presents," he greeted, mentioning to the two bottles of scotch he held by the neck in one hand.

"My savior," Clint swooned, like the idiot he was, making a theatrical hand gesture.

"Maybe you could've come early enough for prepping time, instead," Steve interjected from his place at the stove, stirring whatever. "You know, make yourself useful."

"Some of us have to work to sustain this life of leisure and pleasure, gorgeous," Tony said, settling the bottles on the table. He smiled, though. "Maybe next time."

"Right, like we haven't heard that one before."

"You wound me, Doctor Banner."

As they joked around, Natasha was making a good impression of a wax figure, utterly motionless in the face of the storm that was Tony Stark, who entered the kitchen with a bang, talking loud and making broad gestures. She was unsure whether that was because she wanted his eyes to slide right pass her or if, unconsciously, she wished he would notice her stillness. It was crazy — the second Tony entered the room her whole body awareness grew sharper, to an almost painful point. Every nerve felt exposed, and she knew she could accurately pinpoint his exact position in the room with her eyes closed if she wished to.

The situation, which had already felt uncomfortable, reached new heights of awkwardness with Tony's arrival. Goddammit, Natasha just wanted to eat her lunch in peace, without having a meltdown. Was that too much to ask?

"Pass me that tomato," Clint demanded, interrupting her musings and pointing to the vegetable in question. When Natasha compiled without another word, he stopped his moves to raise his eyes from the chopping board and glance at her. That time, when he spoke, it was a soft whisper. "You okay there?"

"Cool as a cucumber," Natasha confirmed, using the lame joke to try to avoid a more in-depth talk about feelings when Tony was so close by. Clint wouldn't be fooled, but he would understand.

"Is that so?" He asked, raising an eyebrow. "Noted. Go grab me a beer, then. I'm not your slave."

"You aren't?" Bruce asked, reaching over Clint's arm to grab a carrot. "I could've sworn Fury introduced you as the slave of the group — you know, for entertainment purposes. There was even a resume in there, somewhere. Something about a circus background."

Natasha couldn't hold back the slight upturn of her lips at the dig. In many ways, Natasha identified with Bruce more than with the others, maybe because he, not unlike her, was still getting used to living in close quarters with others.

"Traitor," Clint declared, glaring at her for smiling, before turning to face Bruce. "You think you're so fucking funny, big guy. See if I'll cover your back next time."

"Don't worry, Bruce baby, I'll always have your lovely back," Tony interjected, handing Clint a beer wordless, accepting the man's nod of thanks, and draping himself at the edge of the counter, right behind Natasha, all without faltering in his steps.

Natasha instantly shifted in her seat, to lean against the counter as well, and not have her back to him. She tried to justify to herself that it was merely an unwillingness to have a blank spot rather than needing to keep an eye on Tony, specifically.

"And how is our resident spider doing?" he asked, and the way he wrapped his tongue around the word _'our_ ' had to be on purpose. "Need another drink?"

She was about to mention to her full bottle of beer, but as she lowered her eyes, it became clear that it was, indeed, empty. "I—yes, I suppose I do," she said, instead.

"Good." Tony smiled, a whole 180 from the cold, unreachable person he had been the other night in his lab. "Can't trust a person who doesn't drink."

"I'm Russian, you don't have to convince me," Natasha grinned, his enthusiasm infectious.

He laughed back, opening the fridge for her beer. It was natural, unrestrained. And when he slid the bottle over the marble to her, Natasha's hand reaching for it instinctively, she forgot for a minute why family meals weren't quite her thing.

* * *

" _Kill her." The order was given softly, as though a murder request was no more of a hardship or a hazard than a breakfast order at a local café. It didn't sound too odd for her — maybe even predictable. The moment the fight had begun, Natasha had suspected the command to come._

 _She looked down at the girl lying on the mat beneath her, flushed face and terrified eyes. She knew what would come next_ — _perhaps she had predicted the order of the events just as precisely as Natasha had_ — _however, instead of accepting, her demeanor screamed of a deep-seated dread. She understood who would die. They both did._

" _Now." The same voice from before demanded, this time a little frustration seeping into it, as if Natasha's slight hesitation was but a distraction they did not have the time for. It was enough to signal that the moment for doubt was done_ — _she would comply, or the matter would be taken off her hands._

 _Natasha_ — _Natalia_ — _wanted to think the powerful strike she landed on the girl's head, knocking her down and breaking her skull, was a humanitarian move on her part, after all, the painful but quick death she had at Natasha's hand was nothing compared to what she would've faced had the red-haired hesitated for a second longer. However, she considered as she watched the terrified eyes dim and close, it would be ridiculous to deny the hunger she felt inside of her._

 _Her trainer, who watched impassively as Natasha got up from the ground, was a monster_ — _that, she had concluded months ago. She wasn't naïve enough to believe he was the only monster in that room, though._

Natasha's eyes opened in a flash. The Red Room. Of course. The previous day had toyed with too many of her emotions for her dreams to remain peaceful.

As she jerked awake, Natasha's eyes ran across every inch of the hospital room she currently found herself in, hoping for more clues as to why she was there. It was instinctual, the need to gather her bearings and analyze the place she was, preparing for unknown forces to attack at any second. There were IV tubes connected to her arm and bandages wrapped around her ribs, but nothing else seemed wrong with her — certainly nothing that would justify the need to stay at a hospital, open and vulnerable.

Tony sat next to her bed, at the edge of a small chair, still wearing his suit, with only his head and hands free. Natasha could instantly tell he was uneasy and angsty, from his stiff shoulders to the tight line of his lips to the sharp stare he held as he watched the door. She jumped at the chance to take her mind off her dream, ignoring the pounding of her heart.

"What happened?" she asked, surprised by how coarse her voice sounded. Just how long did she stay under for?

Tony turned his head sharply to look at her. "Hey, there. You got hurt in the fight — how much do you remember?"

"Not much. Did we win?"

Despite his tense body posture, Tony cracked a smile at her question, looking just a little smug. "Of course we won. I only leave when the fight is over," he said, getting up from the chair and going towards a table in the corner.

Natasha wanted to roll her eyes and, perhaps, join the banter for a minute, but something wasn't quite adding up in her head. "Why am I here? What happened? Is someone else hurt, because—"

Tony finished pouring a glass of water as she spoke, only to raise his empty hand when she began her tirade. "Hey, hey, no one else is hurt. Here, drink this. There was some sort of poison in that claw, so we thought it would be best to get you to a hospital as fast as possible. Bruce is working on it, so we should have an answer at any time now."

She accepted the water, maneuvering her head to sip from the straw without putting more pressure on her injured ribs in a move that was disturbingly familiar at that point. Torso injuries seemed to be the only type she got, and somewhere along the way, Natasha got quite proficient at living her life while bending as smoothly as possible.

"Why the suit?" She had a good guess, but it was always better to be sure.

"You're hurt," Tony pointed out, as though that would be enough to explain anything.

"Is this hospital compromised?"

Tony's brow furrowed. "What? No, otherwise we would've taken you out of here. Is just a precaution — you never know what could happen. We're in a foreign country. Better to be safe than sorrow."

But then, where was… "Where's Clint?"

The question seemed to amuse Tony for whatever reason, and he took a few seconds to watch her drinking her water before answering. "Just left, actually. Birdman's been here since we arrived, but he began to smell, so I told him to get lost for a few hours and return only after a good, nice scrub."

"You're still in your suit," Natasha felt the need to point out. Even if she could see he had washed his face, it was obvious he was still in the same clothes and armor from the battle.

"What can I say, the bathroom here doesn't meet my standards," He joked, although it was far too forced to be convincing.

She said nothing about it, though. To be honest, it was quite touching that he had stayed with her for the entire time, wearing most of his suit, in the same room as Clint, sitting in a crappy chair just to protect her in case something happened. To say she was unused to such blatant displays of protectiveness was a gross understatement, and Natasha was unsure how to best handle with the emotions running through her at the moment. She wanted to thank him, to ask why he was doing it, to question his motives, to figure out why his eyes were carefully going over her body to check for signs of bruises. Mostly, she wanted to—

"When can we go home?" The words escaped her mouth before she could even process them. Worst of all, it came out in a soft, vulnerable mumble, and Natasha felt like hitting her head on a wall for it.

If she was shocked by her question, it had nothing on Tony's reaction, though. He looked simultaneously as if she had slapped him and given him an early Christmas present. The tension that had been clinging onto him like a second skin seemed to vanish in front of her as his eyes went impossibly soft.

"We were just waiting for you to wake up," he informed, already grabbing his phone. "I'll arrange a jet for us, okay? Home is… yeah, well, home sounds good."

It did, it truly did. It sounded amazing.

"Okay," was all she said.

* * *

"Fury," she greeted, dropping a stack of files onto his desk.

"Agent Romanov. Report." Fury, as always, skipped past the pleasantries and went for the subject at hand. He wasn't one for minced words where he was allowed.

Neither was she. "I don't think I'm suitable for this job anymore, sir. It would present a... conflict of interest for me."

Fury got up from his chair, flattening his palms on the desk and leaning over. "Conflict of interest, you say? As far as I'm aware, agent, you're a SHIELD worker." There was a curious gleam in his eyes, contradicting his domineering display. Natasha didn't fool herself into thinking she had been the one to come up with the idea to leave — the director knew the possibilities when he assigned her to the Avengers initiative.

"It seems my salary comes from S.I now," she said, allowing the scene to play out. "And we handle our affairs internally."

"I see," the man said, straightening up and going to look outside the window of his office. When he spoke again, it was with another tone entirely. "The council is no longer satisfied with my decisions as the director. I may be changing positions myself sometime in the future."

Natasha heard what he wasn't saying. There was no way of knowing if the next director would be a sympathizer of the Avengers or not. If the council decided to put someone else in Fury's place, they would have little choice but to act as an independent group. They had to prepare themselves for the possibility that sooner, rather than later, it would be necessary for them to face a legal battle.

"Perhaps there's still time for a superhero suit to be made on your size," she hinted, knowing he could see her teasing smirk on the reflex of the window.

She heard the message loud and clear, but she had chosen her side this time. She was an Avenger now — Natasha wouldn't play the double agent for SHIELD anymore.

* * *

Natasha's body was her weapon, her defense. To keep it at its peak, she worked out religiously — more than any of the others. Maintaining an active routine.

Working out, leading an overall active life, had long sized to be an obligation — something she did to survive in the Red Room or a means to always be at top performance — and became an escape from the craziness surrounding her in her everyday life.

The work she did, more often than not, exposed her to a myriad of situations where she came face to face with the worst of humanity — stared it down, came close to it, mingled around, touched and sampled the goods, became part of it all. So, in order to ground herself and prevent the essence of who she was to end up lost among the thousand personalities she had to play, Natasha exercised. She warmed up, trained, and stretched, all the while clearing her mind of all that wasn't her and her alone. It was the moment she had conversations with her inner self — the time she had to lower, even a little bit, her walls and let loose. Which was why she so seldom spared with others — it was a distraction, a demand of her personal time that she was now, after so many goddamn years, in a position to deny.

Which was why it was so strange that, when Tony walked inside the frankly disproportionate gym, clearly dressed for a workout, her first instinct was to interrupt her routine and make small talk.

"Finally decided to leave that lab and move other parts of your body other than your hands?" she asked, her left hand still fisted in position to hit the punching bag hanging in front of her.

Tony froze in his spot, a look of surprise on his face as he turned to look at Natasha, pivoting on his heel. "I'll have you know that all my body parts get plenty of action, little spider."

Natasha ignored the nickname, while also ignoring the voice in her head that whispered about what that meant, instead, going for a much more terrifying — for her — answer. "Shall we test that?" she suggested, stepping away from the bag and turning to face him head-on.

It left her feeling exposed. The only possible consolation she had was that Clint wasn't there to witness her humiliating display of, dare she say, affection. Nothing saved her, however, of the shock on Tony's face as he struggled to get himself together.

After a far too long moment, Tony began walking toward her. "Looking for an opportunity to use a living punching bag?" he asked. "Do I need to remind you that I'm only human without the suit?"

"So am I," she pointed out, slightly amused at his answering incredulous stare.

"Right, of course. J, please monitor my vitals, will you? And call the doctors for me if it looks like I'm about to kick the bucket."

"Certainly, sir. Should we establish the precise parameters of the concept of 'kicking the bucket'?" JARVIS's voice could only be described as sassy.

Natasha smirked.

"I don't remember programming you to be this sassy, J," Tony complained.

"Given the amount of whiskey and coffee involved in the last programming session, sir, it's possible something may have escaped your notice," the A.I responded, rather dryly.

"I'll delete you," Tony threatened.

"There's no need for all this caution, Stark. If you prefer, I can go easy on you," Natasha said, closing the space between them.

"See, that, right there. You think it's offensive, but it's not," he said, shaking his head, although he made no move to get out of her range. "I would very much prefer to leave this mat with all my body functions in order."

"Perhaps you should choose the three you like the most. All of them seem like an excessive amount."

"Well, if I have to pick favorites..." Tony trailed off, a teasing glint in his eyes.

"Shut up. I'll even let you go for the first move," Natasha offered, wondering if he would go for it.

"Not sure whether that's an advantage with you," Tony pointed out, moving to grab the hem of his shirt and take it off. Seeing her raised eyebrow, he shrugged. "No grabbing now."

It was sort of cute that he thought she would need his shirt to grab him, but Natasha made no move to correct his assumption nor did she made any further comment about his naked chest. Although it was pointless for his desired purpose, the sight of him sans clothing would most likely serve to distract her — she wouldn't deprive him of his chance at leveling the playing field.

In lieu of a comment, Natasha decided to go for it, ignoring her own previous offer, and, instead, raising her arm to go for an upfront punch. She knew he would see it coming — that was the point.

It was impossible to spar with someone without analyzing their moves and their techniques. At least for Natasha, it was. Tony was good. Obviously, he had training in martial arts — Box and Muay Thai, probably. And, while he seemed afraid of her, Tony didn't even flinch as his kick connected with her stomach — he looked no more uncomfortable hitting a woman than he looked beating any men. The problem was that he lacked bloodthirst. He was playing by the rules, and Natasha wasn't, which was why, within minutes, she had him flat on the mat, holding his arm behind his back.

"Fuck, woman," he groaned, going lax under her. "This is just humiliating."

"Try harder," she teased, releasing him at once and sidestepping his body.

"Russians," he mumbled, getting up. He turned to face her, eyes going sharp as he studied her body with what she imagined was a powerful focus. Tony employed his mind to very little — it was always an experience to see him focusing 100% on something. "My turn," he grunted, this time going for her knees.

Natasha suppressed a satisfied smile. Finally.

It was on.


	3. Who are we today?

**Author's Note: Here it is, guys. The final chapter of this tale. It was a pain to write, but it's finally here, and I'm really excited about it. I think there's something truly incredible about seeing a vulnerable Natasha/Tony moment.**

* * *

"You got lucky," Natasha complained, her hand moving on its own accord to touch Clint's neck where his mark stood. Even though she knew it was a lie — it would've been obvious even if Natasha's voice hadn't cracked as she spoke. Clint's eyes squinched ever so slightly as he watched her.

"I'm sure many would consider having Tony Stark as your mate to be a lucky deal, too," he said, casually.

"Many do not know him," she defended before she could control herself, and immediately frowned in displeasure as she saw the satisfied grin on the archer's face — like getting her to be defensive of her soulmate had been the goal all along. "Shut up."

"I never said anything."

Not like he had to.

"I hate you," she stated, and still, her hands never faltered as she measured the necessary flour to make the damn cookies.

He knew better than to mention it out loud, however, so Clint simply stole another handful of chocolate chip, quickly shoving them all into his mouth when Natasha tried to bat his hand away. "Dammit, Tasha, no need to be so violent. You know that—"

"Stealing the chips is the best part of the recipe," they both said in unison, although Natasha exasperated chant was drowned out by Clint's happy sing-song.

The archer ended with a brilliant smile, his legs swinging like a puppy wagging its tail. "See? It's the rule! One shouldn't be assaulted for following traditions," he proclaimed, but his eyes were shining, and they both knew that her trying to prevent him from stealing the chocolate was just as much of a tradition as the stealing itself.

"I truly hate you," Natasha shook her head, grabbing the sugar. "I do."

* * *

It was early. Natasha had yet to check on a clock, but she had a pretty good guess of the time, and it was not a time she wished to be out of bed. There was no mission, no danger — she could be in her room, under the covers, cozy and warm. Instead, there she was, in the kitchen, standing in front of the coffee machine and waiting for her mug to be filled with the burning hot liquid — which was to be her only compensation for rolling out of bed before 5 AM.

Before the damn coffee was ready, however, somebody else stumbled into the kitchen, literally knocking over a chair from the table as they walked in.

"Shit. Fuck," Tony cursed, walking around the fallen chair and going straight for where she was. His eyes were glued to the coffee machine, and Natasha wondered if he even noticed she was there.

"J, time," he asked, hitting the cupboard with his forehead and leaning there.

"4:47 AM, sir."

"Fuck. Ugh, Tuesday?" He mumbled.

"Actually, it's Wednesday," Natasha answered before the A.I could, pleased when Tony jumped in surprise, his eyes popping open.

"For the love of— Shit. I have a heart condition, you know? Make some damn noise," he said, a hand over his heart, as though he was trying to hold it inside. "Damn assassins. I should just put a bell around your necks."

"Kinky," Natasha grinned, grabbing her mug to take a mouthful. It would absolutely burn her entire mouth, and she could hardly wait.

When the first taste of hot, hot coffee hit her tongue, Natasha's eyes closed on their own accord as she struggled to hold a moan in — God, Tony certainly got his money's worth with that fancy shit.

"Is that coffee?" Tony suddenly demanded. "Give me," he added, without waiting for her reply, giving a step closer and making grabby hands at her mug.

"What? No. Go make your own," she denied, holding the mug closer to her chest. He couldn't seriously mean for her to share — not before her first three cups.

"I've been awake for 52 hours, Natasha. Give me that," Tony said, eyes glued to the steam leaving her mug. He had a whole look of desperate need going. "Please."

As he pleaded, the patience seemed to leave him at once, and Tony reached for her mug without another word.

Natasha wanted to jump out of his reach, but, somehow, inexplicably, when his calloused fingers closed around the handle, touching her sternum in its trajectory, she did nothing. Natasha did nothing as he brought the mug to his lips and took a long sip of her — _her_ — coffee, doing what she hadn't allowed herself, and moaning around the rim. As he stood there, taking possession of her morning drug, Natasha remained glued to her place, waiting to see what her next reaction would be. It was crazy to see who she was whenever Tony was concerned.

"Thanks," Tony groaned. "Come here," he said, grabbing her hand and dragging her closer until she was slammed against his chest, his arc-reactor digging on her shoulder.

It was uncomfortably sharp, but, like all else, that also failed to get her to protest.

"Here," he offered the mug back, supporting his chin on the top of her head. Tony was completely relaxed as he leaned on her, his body weight heavy as he trusted Natasha to hold him.

One hand holding her half-filled mug, one hand going for his back, Natasha did precisely that, standing her ground to support him. And for a long while, they remained there, sharing several mugs of coffee between them, in the communal kitchen, waiting for the sun to come up.

* * *

Natasha had one pistol in each hand, firing in quick succession at the targets popping up all over the range. She was focus and precision, determination and direction. She was an agent, and she had her mission — there was no place for doubts. Although there were dozens of empty magazines lying on the floor around her, a full tray was still standing in front of her, carrying at least a hundred new available ones, ready for use.

There was something wrong, though. Her breath was coming in ragged puffs, her chest heaving as the amount oxygen failed to satisfy her body's needs. She had missed three shots in a row because of the way her hands trembled. There was no reason for it, however. Natasha ran a mental analysis on her body, trying to pinpoint the cause of her malfunction, knowing that if she had been on the field, her lack of competence would have had her killed many minutes ago. She was supposed to be all about level-headedness and dissociation.

Yet, strangely, the range seemed to be progressively closing in on her, narrowing the space further and further until she felt like there was an ich underneath her chest she needed to scratch out. And still, JARVIS kept creating the targets, which left Natasha with no other choice but to keep moving to shoot them, shoving a new magazine in place as soon as she counted the last shot from the previous one.

How many hours had she been running and rolling around, wasting ammo on those holograms? And, more pressingly, why couldn't she stop?

Natasha was crunched on the floor, eyes scanning every inch surrounding her — looking, waiting, for the next target to come up. One, two, three, eleven, twenty, fifty seconds went by, and nothing appeared. She wouldn't relax, wouldn't drop her shoulders. The second her concentration wavered, that would be the moment JARVIS would have something creeping up on her. He had never done something like that during her sessions, but the A.I was created by Tony, and when it came to him, nothing was impossible.

When, after nine minutes, the same emptiness echoed across the room, with nothing but Natasha's own out-of-sync breath to disturb the peace, she felt the tremors running up her arms. Nine minutes should've been nothing. To her, hours should've been nothing. Natasha vision was narrowing, even as she remained still. She wanted to lay down, she wanted to run, she wanted to scream, she wanted to shower the wall in front of her with bullets only because she could.

A voice snapped her out of her circular thoughts, and Natasha had to twist her whole body to see the person leaning against a panel. It took her two seconds to have him within her shooting range. "Impressive display," he said, almost lazily.

Her fingers were shaking as they hovered over the triggers. Identify the target, confirm the threat, eliminate the subject. "Reveal yourself," Natasha demanded, scanning for others.

She should've noticed the presence before he had to announce himself.

"Very Nikita," he added, ignoring her demand. "Although I must say, you paint a much more attractive picture than Anne Parillaud. No offenses to her, of course. It's just a matter of preference."

"I said, reveal yourself," Natasha repeated, urging her body to move from her position. She should get up, approach the figure, analyze the situation. And yet, there she remained, crunching on the ground, shaking like a civilian in a fight.

"Not a fan of a well-executed 90's movie?" The figure questioned. "That's too bad. I happen to think it's a perfectly acceptable movie." He paused and stepped away from the panel before adding: "You plan on getting up any time soon or should I move closer to the floor as well?"

Natasha didn't have time to answer — or even consider if getting up was an option to her — because the man began to walk closer to her, step by step, coming into the light and revealing the familiar face of Tony Stark. He only wore a pair of sweatpants, which hung low on his hip, his face and torso slightly red and sweaty.

He wasn't a threat. Natasha needed to remove her fingers from the triggers and lower the guns aiming at his chest. Tony was a fellow Avenger, a teammate, an ally, a friend, her soulmate. He was walking toward her and Natasha couldn't seem to force herself to unlock from her terse position of defense. Why was she hyperventilating?

He came to stand in front of her, only to immediately fold into a sitting position instead, shoving some empty magazines away. He ignored the guns pointed at him, where they almost touched his chest. "Hey, there, little spider. No need for such deep breaths. Tough day?"

No need. Natasha wasn't exercising anymore, she didn't need so much air going in, she had to quit behaving like a freak and get herself under control. She could do it, she had to.

Shut down. Isolate. Detach. Put up a front.

She lowered her arms, closing her eyes for a moment and pulling one last deep breath before she opened her mouth. "Don't interrupt my training session again. That was reckless, even for you. Leave." Her voice came out mechanic, robotic even, but steady. That's what mattered.

It angered Tony, however. His lips tightened, and his eyes sharpened. "Don't do that. Don't fucking play this with me," Tony said, but it sounded like an order or a demand.

It confused Natasha. She didn't have the time to entertain Tony's musings at the moment — how long could she hope to keep her entire body from shaking?

"I'm not finished. Leave before I hurt you," Natasha threatened, although it came out sounding so much more like a warning than anything else. For a spy, it was a pitiful mistake to make.

"If you keep acting with me, I'll be the one doing the hurting. Trust me," he informed.

The censure had alarm bells ringing inside her head, and, finally, Natasha snapped back into place. It was easy to push the panic attack back into the corner of her mind when she had such a clear goal in place. She didn't want Tony to see her breaking down, she refused to hurt him as collateral damage.

"What?" Natasha snapped, getting up and putting down the pistols in the tray. "You think you want to see this? Don't delude yourself into believing this is pretty or tame. Get close to me when I'm in the middle of a crisis again, and I'll break your arms."

She had to hide a wince as she admitted to having a crisis in the middle of their shooting range, but beyond the point of caution. What had he been thinking? She could've shot him.

Tony remained where he was, leaning back and supporting his weight on his hands. His previous anger all but vanished from his face. "Is that supposed to be scary? 'Cause, let me tell you, if that was the point, boy, did you miss the mark."

It was always a joke with Stark, wasn't it? "When will you take any of it seriously? I could kill you."

"So could I, if I wanted to. Stop evading."

"Without your suit?" Natasha asked.

"Don't be naive," he said, mentioning the room around them with his hands. Natasha hid her hands behind her back. "I own this tower, Natasha, you don't think JARVIS will flood this room with poisonous gas if I ask for it? You don't think there's a group of security nearby? You don't think I have precautious? I stopped selling weapons — I haven't stopped designing and constructing 'em."

"You truly think that would be enough?" It was an honest question. Perhaps in some level, Natasha needed to know he would be able to stop her if it came down to it — that he had the means to do so if things got out of control.

"Yes." No pause, no hesitation.

How could she believe him when minutes before she had almost shot him down? "Don't be so confident. I'm trained to go for the kill, Tony," Natasha reminded, with no small amount of bitterness at the mention of her goddamn training.

Tony rolled his eyes, leaning forward now. "So I am! For the love of— I was called the merchant of death, Natasha!" He exploded, exasperated. "For more than a decade, I designed weapons for my company."

"But you—"

"No, I'm not stupid, so don't even pretend to justify me," Tony interrupted, shaking his head. "Yeah, I had no clue of the scope of the damage I was making, but I always knew my weapons weren't used for kisses and roses. I was the one who went on demonstrations, who showed people how to handle them, who tested and approved of their effectiveness. I haven't shut that side of me completely down — I can't. I just try to channel it somewhat better."

Only it wasn't the same. Not even a little bit.

Her expression must have spoken for her because Tony got up, pushing himself up and moving to grab a magazine from the pile. "What do you want me to say, Natasha? I like this, alright? Being near weaponry, handling them? It isn't exactly a hardship for me. I don't know how else to make myself clear."

"There's a difference between liking and designing weapons and knowing all the ways to use it to make others suffer," Natasha finally said, after a few moments of silence where Tony's gaze remained locked with hers. It was all she could say, and she hoped he understood what she meant by it. Tony may have been a weapon producer, he may be an Avengers now, he may fight the bad guys, he may maim, and even kill, but it wasn't the same as being a weapon himself.

His eyes went darker as she spoke, an unreadable emotion swimming in them. It was impossible to read what he was feeling or if he understood her words. Tony remained silent for many minutes, seeming to be weighing his words carefully. When he spoke, it was with a whole other tone.

"Are you scared because you think you're dangerous or because you know that you can't scare me away?" Tony asked, with a pointed look to his exposed soulmark.

The words left his mouth with an ease that shouldn't be possible. He knew. Suddenly, Natasha could see it in his face that Tony knew of her soulmark, even though she had no idea how he could've gotten that information.

It was too much. She wasn't prepared to have that conversation — not like that. So she did what seemed like the only reasonable thing to do in the face of the situation — Natasha turned on her heels and left the room without any other word.

* * *

It took her three months to return to the tower. Despite her best efforts, she couldn't stay away for longer than that. Which was how she ended up in Tony's lab, in the middle of the night, wearing pajamas and with no game-plan whatsoever.

Natasha needed to know. "When did you find out?"

Tony's face gave little away when he answered, looking up from the Stark Pad in his hands. "A while," he said with a shrug.

"Define a while."

"Look, after the whole Natalia/Natasha thing, I'll admit, I got curious," Tony admitted, unbothered. "I was intrigued. Despite what my file may have indicated about me, I'm a good judge of character. I've been tricked so many times that, by now, I have a good bullshit sensor. And the fact that you had called my attention... that was definitely something to investigate."

"Is that so? Cuz I had been under the impression that what had truly amazed you was my physical appearance."

"Are you fishing for compliments? Yes, I find you to be extremely attractive. Disturbingly attractive. So attractive, indeed, it's a constant distraction. I cannot be the first man to tell you that," he said, tilting his head in consideration.

He wasn't. He wasn't the first, and he wouldn't be the last, but, perhaps, he was the first one that said that while looking her into her eyes and who seemed to mean it in many different ways, too. Tony wasn't the first to say she was attractive. He was, however, the first one who incited a response out of her. Natasha might delude herself into believing she lacked a wide range of emotions, and that she had lost a huge chunk of her personality along the line of the numerous characters she played; it didn't change the fact that Tony still shook her balance. His eyes... He was always so expressive. The suits, the cars, the flashy personality, the sunglasses, it all seem to be a constructed façade to hide the fact that his eyes showed so much. He had never learned to put a good shield. And, at that moment, Natasha was grateful for it. If he had been a better manipulator, a better liar, than she would never be able to believe a word he was saying.

"So, you hacked into my SHIELD file?" She guessed, knowing that Tony wouldn't have any difficulties doing so.

"Yes," he said, unrepentant.

"That's not all of it, is it?"

"Of course not," he agreed easily. "There wasn't anything about your soulmark on the file. Nothing at all — which is beyond suspicious, especially for a double-cover assassin. so I might have asked JARVIS to look into every information he could get his metaphorical hands on."

"Quite the privacy breach," Natasha pointed out, trying to calculate all the information that he could've found.

"Please, like you haven't done the same?" He pointed out.

It was a great point. "I'm not saying you shouldn't have done it, or that I wouldn't have done the same in your position. I'm merely commenting on a fact."

"Yeah, well, I lost my ability to trust easily a few death attempts ago, so... I went for a full hack. The way I see it, you stick a needle in my neck, you lose your right to privacy."

"What did you find?"

"Everything. After you came to work for the Avengers, it became sort of an obsession for me. The more blank spaces I found, the harder I dug for what was underneath. In the end, I found your old files," he said all that in the same breath, and Natasha held her breath. She knew where he was going, but maybe he… There was no way... "From the Red Room."

"Oh," Natasha exclaimed. She hadn't expected that. Or rather, she had expected but had hoped to be wrong, despite the clues pointing differently. The mention of her old life sent her head into overdrive — she wanted to know exactly what details he knew, what had been written about her... that wasn't a part of her life she wanted anyone digging through, much less Tony.

"Yeah, oh. I ended up finding mentions of your soulmark... alongside detailed information on their many attempts at removing it." And he sounded angry at that. He looked angry. His brow was furrowed in a deep crease as he forced the words out. "Natasha—"

"No. That's not something I want to talk about. You stole that information; I didn't share it. I don't want to know what you think of it," She didn't. Not right there, as exposed as she was already feeling. Maybe never. The Red Room was a crux she had to carry along wherever she went, knowing that she would never be truly free from the training, and the memories, and the nightmares, and the demons, but it was hers to carry. Hers alone.

"And why did you never say anything?" She asked, when he remained in silence.

"I didn't know you. Sometimes I still don't," Tony said, with a twisted smile. "You walked into my life as a lie, as a spy, working for my ex-girlfriend — for _Pepper_ — and you literally stabbed me with a needle. I have trust issues the size of Mount Everest — I've never denied that. There were no pictures, just a damn good description of it. In my mind, I was already sure. I mean, the details, the place, the color... it was too similar, too perfect to be anything else than what it was. But I wasn't really ready to accept it — not yet."

"And in the hospital…"

"I was with you the whole time. Even when the doctors worked on you, I was in the room. Couldn't just leave you there, with a bunch of strangers unsure whether you were really fine or not. So I stayed. And I saw. I want to say it changed something for me, but I don't think it did."

"Well, the way you've been behaving with me... I don't understand. Were you ever going to tell me?" Natasha asked, raising an eyebrow. Just how long had Tony been planning to keep the information to himself?

He shrugged. "Eventually."

"Eventually? Are you fucking with me?" Natasha gritted through her teeth, trying to reign in her anger. "Is this some sort of test, where you play with me to see how I'll respond? Because that sick, even for us."

"What do you want me to say? This isn't exactly the sort of conversation people prepare you for," he defended, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

God, she couldn't believe the words coming from his mouth. "You are doing just fine now. I don't get it; is this what you like seeing? Me, all messed up? Vulnerable, so perhaps your weaknesses don't seem so immense?"

"You've known for years — much longer than I've known, that's for sure. Why haven't you said something, then?" Tony pointed out, raising his voice and taking one step closer to her. "The ball's been in your court for a damn long while."

"You've read my file, you've seen what I do. I'm an assassin, a spy. I'm the spy of spies. I traded KGB for SHIELD, but that doesn't mean my work has been any less dirty. I haven't gotten clean; I've just changed alliances — done a tad less damage in hopes of getting to do something right for a change," Natasha began, fulled by the challenge shinning in his eyes. "You were a playboy, a rich kid who had more power than what he knew what to do with, so, yeah, forgive me if I didn't jump into the chance of being Mrs. Stark. I couldn't risk it; I still don't know if I can. I don't do romantic relationships, and that's for a good reason. You've read my files, you tell me."

Instead of infuriating him further, her words seemed to deflate Tony just as fast as her previous ones had enraged him. When he spoke, his voice went so, so soft. "Natasha what they did to you... it doesn't make you unlovable. They haven't stripped away your ability to connect with others. Is sick, and unimaginable, but you survived. You can't stop living; otherwise, they've won."

What did Tony know about the Red Room? A few files here hardly enough to begin to understand what Natasha had to endure inside those walls. "They've already won."

"They've only won if you let them."

God, the whole superhero speech just disgusted her beyond words. "Don't be naive; it's pathetic."

He shook his head, raising his hand, as though he was about to reach out to touch her, only to give up half-way and lower it again. "Don't get defensive just because I've touched a nerve."

"Stop trying to pretend to understand what I've been through."

"I'm not! I couldn't, even if I wanted to. I'm sorry if that's how it sounded to you."

Natasha was tired. Exhausted. Tony was proving to be more than what she could handle. "What do you want from me?" She asked, because she needed to know. They all wanted something, and Tony was in a position to ask for more than most.

"I don't know."

Impossible. "Everyone wants something."

"I definitely want many things from you, as I'm sure you want from me. But what you're really asking me is where I want this to go, how I want to do things, how I want to proceed, how do we do this, and I don't know. I don't have all the answers. In fact, as time goes by, I realize I have fewer and fewer answers than I thought I had. What I do know, though, is that it doesn't make sense for us to pretend that we don't know. You are my soulmate, and I'm yours. Whatever we decide to do with this, it's on us, but let's not pretend like we're ignorant of the matter — like you're just another teammate. Cuz you're not; you've never been."

"I'm not sure I can be what you need." Actually, Natasha was almost sure she could never be a third of what Tony Stark needed.

"I'm not even sure what I need, Natasha. I'm pretty sure that what I need, right now, is a lot different than what I needed a year ago, six months ago, and a whole other ballgame from what I thought I needed five years ago. What do you think I need?"

The answer was at the tip of her tongue, ready to fly. Is wasn't as though she hadn't had the time to think about the details for years and years, dwelling over the painful differences between them in the sickest form of masochism possible. "Someone to stand by your side. Someone to be the public face you need for your company. A stable person to ground you. Someone to keep you human. A wife. A mother for your children. The whole white picket fence. I'm not any of that many of those; I literally cannot be."

"White picket fence? When have I ever given you the impression that I'm holding my breath, waiting for children and a baked apple pie?" He asked, sounding honest-to-god surprised.

"Everyone wants that, in the end. People say they don't need that, that they won't conform to the norm, but it's a lie, and we know it. All humans crave the sense of belonging and the normality of being a fully functioning member of society."

"In case you haven't noticed, we live a the tower filled with superheroes, and Norse gods, and a Hulk, and impossible things that turned out to be very possible," Tony pointed out, hesitating for a second before carrying on. "I-I flew past a hole that, for all purposes, should have swallowed me whole. I saw a piece of the universe, an army of aliens ready to take down our planet, and I was willing to risk my life so that everyone else could live. It's... I know that it goes against all your training but, perhaps, what we are living here... it's not something you've ever been taught. If I can be the person who changes the history of Stark Industries while doing what I do as Iron Man, then that's more than enough for me. I don't delude myself with thoughts of pretty houses, a stay-at-home wife, and definitely not children."

And, as he spoke, his eyes traveled across her body, and Natasha could tell that Tony was interested in her. It was surreal. She had paraded in front of him in countless dresses, gym clothes, tight uniforms… all clothes that showed her body in a much more favorable light than the ratty pajamas she was currently wearing. And, yet, there it was, unmistakable in his stare, the flicker of need, of want.

Natasha was confused, frustrated, and, honestly, beyond tired. The more she tried, the less she understood of the person who was supposed to be her other half. "I don't get it — is this what you like?" She asked, mentioning to her pajama-clothed body.

Tony didn't look surprised by her question, neither did he pretend to misunderstand her point. He knew exactly what she was asking and why.

"How many others have seen you like this, Natasha? How many?" He asked, perhaps a touch disappointed. "How many men saw you dressed to impress, flashing all your assets? Dozens, hundreds? You use your body like I use my image, for a work purpose. And that's fine — no, not fine, but it's what we do. I want more, though. So much more. I want this. I want pajamas and insecurities. You give me this — you give me the real you – and I'll give you everything."

* * *

It was crazy.

Natasha knew what she was supposed to be doing. She knew what was expected — understood better than most the unspoken rules of seduction and sex. There was nothing new happening there, and there probably wouldn't be. No matter how much Tony had slept around, the chances of him wanting to do anything that would freak her out was next to none, Natasha was well aware of that. For her job, she had done whatever was needed — many times disregarding her own personal preferences or boundaries. If the goal was to impress, she certainly knew how.

The problem, however, was that she wasn't sure whether the goal was to impress. Tony was closing the distance between them, his mouth nearly touching hers, and Natasha had yet to decide if she wanted to perform or drop down her barriers and kiss him as Natasha — as her.

But, then, as if reading her mind, Tony whispered against her mouth. "Relax."

Just one single word. One hot breath against her mouth and Natasha decided to stop overthinking it for once in her fucking life and kiss her soulmate the way she desperately wanted to. She would deal with whatever the next day if she had to. For the moment, all she needed was to be kissing him.

Natasha leaned forward and captured his bottom lip between hers, biting her soft flesh when he opened his mouth slightly in response.

There they were — two people who had seen it all, done it all. Still, despite how many hands had lingered in the same spot Tony's hand were lingering on her hips, the touch ignited a different sort of fire inside of her chest that made her want to do more. And Natasha realized she could. There was absolutely no reason for her not to reach forward and grab Tony's bicep, pulling him closer and closer to her body until they were so flushed together it would become difficult to differentiate their heartbeats. So she did.

And he let her.

His hands reflexively gripped her hipbone tighter, and yet, it wasn't hard enough. Natasha needed more. Suddenly, she wanted to touch, and bite, and feel, every inch of skin in front of her, but, more astonishing, she needed him to do the same. The feeling of desperation rushing through her veins as he slid his hand upwards, tracing a path on her back, was unlike any other. It was heady, unimaginable.

The time for hesitance had long passed. Tony looked at her, his eyes dark and molten as he leaned back a little. "How do you wanna come?" he asked, one hand still making its way up her torso while the other went for her nape, trapping her in his hold.

Instead of making her feel caged, the hold just served to send her into overdrive. Her own hands were moving, without her rational permission, digging holes on his bicep as she sank her fingernails into his skin, desperate. She closed her eyes, the question sending a sharp shot of arousal through her entire body at once.

God, how was she supposed to choose when he was right there, so fucking close, breath warm against her lips. " _Yes,_ " she answered, which was not an answer at all. Only it was — it was.

"Greedy," Tony teased, fingers going for her hair to grip the roots and pull. Her head bent back to accommodate him. "I like that."

And he kissed her. Properly, this time. Wet, desperate, needy, demanding.

Maybe that was just how he was, or perhaps he was more in tune with Natasha's desires than she had given him credit, because Tony doesn't take his time to treat her like a porcelain doll or to try and make her feel appreciated, instead, he dived right in, like a starved man who was suddenly let loose on a buffet. His hands were running up and down her sides, gripping and pinching. His leg was pressed up in the middle of hers, thankfully giving her something solid to grind against.

And his lips — G _od, his lips_ — were attached to her neck as though it was the only thing giving him substance to live. He bit and licked and sucked. All teeth and saliva. Natasha had no doubts she would have massive hickeys coloring her pale neck for the weeks to come, and yet she welcomed it, pressed herself harder against his lips, tilted her head to the side to offer him more space.

Natasha realized she was wearing her bathrobe and nothing else. It had been her decision to go like that, but for a second she had forgotten how, minutes before, she had been standing still in front of the mirror in her bathroom, wondering how long it would take her to gather the courage to stop avoiding the reality that Tony was her soulmate, that the thought had stopped being repulsive and frightening a long time ago, and that the only thing preventing her from going to him was the fear coiled tight in her stomach. Fear of what would happen, what would mean for her, for them.

In the face of the depressing prospect of having to through the motions of ignoring half of her every day more god-knows how many more months, it had seemed easy to step out of her bathroom, her room, and go straight to Tony's, refusing to stop even for a moment. If she allowed herself the tiniest moment to second guess the decision to go for it, the doubt would creep back in, and she would run and hide. Again.

Which meant that when Tony said against her mouth, " _allow me_ ," and untied the knot keeping the robe crossed over her body, it slid open, revealing her naked body to his intense perusal.

"Shit," he whispered, almost to himself, as Natasha shrugged the fabric off her shoulders and down her arms. Tony raised his open hand to touch her valley between her breasts, tracing the way down toward her stomach. "This muscles… I kind of want to push you until you're trembling under me."

"Not an easy task," Natasha teased, although she was already tensing in anticipation at even that soft touch.

Tony's answering grin was positively predatory. "I should hope not," he breathed in her ear, before kissing the side of her neck.

Natasha clutched fistfuls of his shirt, a tremor going down her spine. He grabbed her by the waist, carrying her into the room and carefully placing her body on the bed.

"Let me take care of you tonight, alright?" Tony proposed, his eyes dark with barely controlled need as he caged her underneath his warm body.

He looked so serious, too, still wearing all his clothes even though his erection quite obviously tented his pants. Natasha wanted it. Wanted all he was freely offering, even if it meant a lot of exposure on her part. "Alright," she agreed, carding her fingers into Tony's hair, feeling as he leaned into the touch.

And, just like that, Tony's mouth was making its way down her body, purposely ignoring all the places she needed to be touched the most, and going for her legs, kissing her calf, the back of her knees, her inner thigh… She tried to undulate her hips, hoping to direct his mouth to her damn clit before she had to grab him by the hair and force his face to the place between her legs.

"So impatient," he teased, grazing his teeth on the soft flesh of her thigh. "Is there something you want, gorgeous?"

"No one likes a man that's all talk and no walk, Stark," Natasha informed, going for his pride in hopes of better results than body language.

His eyes narrowed in response. "Oh, I'm plenty of walk, Natasha. Perhaps I just want to see you begging, first."

And she understood; It was punishment. Tony was punishing her for making him wait all those months without giving a sign whether she would stay or bolt. He had Natasha exactly where he wanted her, and no way would he allow her to get her way without some penitence first.

It should've annoyed her. And, perhaps, if a brief flash of hurt hadn't passed through his eyes, even as he lowered his mouth back to her skin, maintaining the eye-contact, Natasha might have tensed and responded with a defensive quip. As it was, Natasha was done hiding.

She raised an eyebrow, allowing her expression to turn playful instead of wary. "Make me," she dared, opening her legs in a clear invitation.

Tony moaned, settling properly in the middle of her legs, grasping the back of her knees and easing them apart, more and more, until Natasha was completely exposed to his hungry stare. He wasted no more time with a smart comeback, diving right in to lick Natasha around her clit, relaxed and wet.

 _Oh._

 _Shit_.

She bit back a hiss, trying to anchor her hands into the sheets in hopes of not losing her mind completely.

There was something so undeniably hot about having Tony focused entirely on her, hands gripping her leg and mouth sucking her as though she was the only thing keeping him alive. Every so often, he would release a groan of satisfaction, digging his fingers harder into her flesh, and it was all Natasha could do to hold back the noises stuck in the back of her throat. He was just so goddamn good.

Unlike many of her previous conquests, Tony never said anything about her lack of encouraging noises, but, instead, remained deep in the zone, opening his eyes only ever so often to meet her eyes. The lack of pressure to perform was doing more for her than she had ever thought possible. Natasha's eyes slid shut, and she sunk into the waves of pleasure rolling across her body.

It was sinfully perfect. Tony was far too good at what he was going, and soon enough she would be begging just as he had previously requested.

 _Shit._

"Tony, I'll—," she tried to warn, but the words died on her lips as she pushed two fingers inside her.

It was fast. One second she was panting, the next she was trembling, and curling her feet, and arching her back, and fisting the sheets, and hissing in pleasure as she came with Tony's mouth firmly pressed against her.

 _Shit._

It was gloriously perfect. A high unlike any other she had ever felt before. Good in a way that felt almost criminal.

When she came down from the high, panting for breath, Natasha looked down at Tony, who had his eyes on her, watching her every move. When their eyes met, she was relieved to see that he looked as wrecked as Natasha felt, pupils blown wide and cum wetting his nose, lips, and chin.

"Damn, Natasha," Tony groaned, his fingers slowly — _oh, so slowly_ — going back and forth inside her. "You look so goddamn perfect like this."

He looked pretty good too, actually, all messed up and out-of-control, arousal etched on every pore of his body. She never wanted to leave the place where she was, so snug and comfortable, but it felt selfish to lie there and let him do all the work. He was still pressing her down, though.

"Let me move," she asked, mentioning with her chin for him to slide sideways. Tony, however, didn't seem inclined to obey.

"Relax. I'm not big on reciprocation," Tony informed, bitting her inner thigh hard enough to elicit a yelp out of her. He began to slowly move the fingers inside her again — all the way inside, all the way out.

She tried to puzzle the pieces together on her own, but her brain had melted some time after her orgasm, and nothing was making as much sense as it should. "What does that even mean?" Natasha breathed out, conflicted whether she wanted to close her legs to escape the overstimulation that was becoming slightly more uncomfortable than pleasurable or if she should just push his head further down.

"It means," Tony explained, grabbing her left leg to force her open in a position that would've hurt it Natasha didn't possess quite an impressive flexibility. "That doing this," he continued, raising his head to look at her without a trace of impatience on his expression, carrying a conversation with her while nestled in between her legs as though it was a position he frequently found himself in. "Does more for me than, let's say, penetration."

"What? You don't want to come?" She asked, not believing her ears. He couldn't possibly mean that.

He kissed her stomach. "God, Natasha, I want to fucking mark your body and touch every inch of you. Yes, I want to come, it just isn't my priority right now. This is… well, fuck, this is much better," Tony said hotly.

Natasha wasn't sure what to say. It sounded far too fantastic to be honest, and yet she couldn't detect any hint of deception in his eyes — only desire and contentment, pouring off of him.

"You sure?" She had to be sure.

"Fuck yes. Don't move, okay? I'll be right back." Tony said, carefully pulling his fingers out, getting up from the bed, and leaving the room entirely.

Natasha didn't know where he was going — if he needed to pee or a glass of water. The whole thing was escaping her understanding. However, before the questions killed her mood, he returned, smiling widely, and with a fucking vibrator in his hands. Red and golden — of course.

She couldn't prevent an amused snort. "You are so fucking precious."

"Why, thank you," he said, crawling into the bed to hover above her. "You are pretty sweet, too. Don't worry."

God, Natasha was going to become one of those people who laughed and joked in the middle of sex. With Tony, it would be inevitable. "Shut up."

"Your wish is my command," Tony agreed, moving to kiss her. He moved with intent, forcing her mouth open with his, and Natasha allowed it, kissing back just as forcefully, loving the way his body felt pliant against her touch.

As his hands went to the middle of her legs, Tony released her mouth to lower it back on her nipple, sucking it lazily. Natasha arched into it, shamelessly chasing the sensation. Fuck — it was almost a spiritual experience.

Tony's teased her entrance for a moment, waiting until she began to mindless chase the vibrator with her movements before he began to push it inside her, inch by inch, until Natasha felt full and bothered. Somehow it didn't surprise her that Tony hadn't messed around with his choice of sex toys — it fit her idea of him perfectly. Then, suddenly, it started to vibrate inside her. A constant, powerful buzz that forced a gasp past Natasha's lips. Tony's reasoning behind the heavy hand on her stomach became clear when the overwhelming need to buckle her hips hit her.

" _Stark technology_ ," he explained with a far-too-satisfied grin. "I only work with the best."

"Ughh," she moaned in response, beyond coherent words. It was exquisite, and it stole her breath. Of _fucking_ course Tony had designed his own perfect vibrator.

"That's it, gorgeous," Tony released her nipple to say, his voice full of amazement. He rested his forehead against hers, closing his eyes. "Thank you," he murmured, so low indeed, she almost failed to hear it. "Thank you."

It was Tony Stark in bed with her, though, so Natasha fought the ripples of pleasure threatening to cloud her mind permanently, sneaked her hand under his shirt to rest it over the place she knew the soulmark was and forced the words out. "Please, don't let me hurt you," she finally begged, her eyes glued to his.

And, because Tony was her soulmate, who knew just how prone she was to get lost inside her head, his eyes shined with fondness and understanding even as his mouth twisted into a seductive grin. "Oh, I don't know, Natasha. I just might let you hurt me in any way you like," he promised, winking playfully before raising the speed of the vibrator just as she opened her mouth to respond.

" _Shit!_ " Natasha screamed, digging her nails all the way on Tony's biceps, which, in turn, elicited a hiss of pleasure from the man.

And finally, after all those years, Natasha understood the mark. The half-eaten apple. They were sin, temptation, and luxury, all wrapped into two fucked up people. Yes. However, what Natasha hadn't realized before was that she hadn't taken the damn bite before that moment. No. They were going to do that together, and, somehow, Natasha couldn't find it in her to be the tiniest bit remorseful about it.

That girl, Eve, must have known what she was doing, after all.


End file.
